Slow Heat in Heaven

by Sandra Brown

  "We haven't had a nooner in so long," she sighed, taking a love bite of his tough, heavily veined bicep. "I'm glad you called."

  Cash had one arm crooked behind him, his head resting in the palm of his hand. His eyes were focused on the water rings on the ceiling as the smoke from his cigarette snaked upward toward them. He was wondering if Rhoda knew, that for all her talent and trouble, he was still soft. His jeans were unsnapped, but so far she hadn't investi­gated inside them. She would be mad as hell when she discovered he wasn't loaded and ready to fire.

  His cock was lusting for somebody else. Rhoda wasn't going to appease it. He had known that before he had called her, but on the outside chance that she would tempo­rarily distract him, he called her anyway.

  So far nothing she had done had worked. That left him feeling mad as a hornet and mean as hell. He pushed Rhoda off him and left the bed.

  "Where are you going?"

  "It's hotter than hell in here."

  "It is not. If anything it's too cold. The air conditioner is blowing full blast."

  "All right then, it's too cold." He located an ashtray on the dresser and ground out his cigarette, wishing he could put out the fire in his belly as easily.

  "You're in another stinky mood."

  "It's been a stinky twenty-four hours."

  Not really. This time yesterday he'd been watching Schyler get delightfully tipsy on champagne, becoming softer, sexier with each sip. He'd watched her reclining in the car with her knees spread wide, her hair tangled and blowing in the wind, her lips slightly parted while she gently snored through them. All her defenses had been down.

  "Cash?"

  "What? Goddamn it. Can't you see I'm thinking?"

  "I thought you came here to think about me," Rhoda said shortly.

  He was ready to hammer home a scathing comment, but he checked himself. What the hell was the matter with him? He had a hot and willing broad in bed waiting for him. She was naked and she was nasty, and he was moping around like a dumb-assed kid with a big red zit on prom night.

  "That's right, Rhoda. I did. Give me something to think about."

  He dove on top of her and covered her mouth with his.

  He held her head between his hands. His kiss was rapa­cious. Cruelly he ground his pelvis against hers.

  "Cash, my God," she gasped several moments later when she came up for air. "Calm down, baby. We don't have to rush it, do we?"

  "Yes," he muttered against her neck. "We do." He fum­bled to draw out a semi-erection that was showing promise. He had to get it inside Rhoda before he remembered she wasn't his first choice.

  "Wait, I want to show you something." She ignored his cursing impatience and smiled seductively. "Look at these." She reached for her handbag on the nightstand, let­ting her nipple drag across the starched sheet. When she lay back down, both nipples stood out.

  Cash sat up, snarling with disgust for himself, for her, for everything. Apprehensively he stared down at what she had handed him. "Pictures?"

  His attitude changed after glancing at the first snapshot. He thumbed through the stack of photographs, carefully studying each one before going on to the next. Without moving his head, he glanced up at Rhoda from beneath his brows. Her smile defined licentiousness. He went back to the photographs and looked at all of them a second time.

  "That's a really wide. . . smile you've got there, Rhoda." His pause was deliberately timed so that his ob­servation had an insulting double entendre.

  Rhoda, however, was too in love with the pictures to notice his intentional slur. "Guess who took them?"

  "I don't like guessing games."

  "Dale," she said on a high giggle.

  "He likes to take pictures of naked women?" Cash's pas­sions hadn't just cooled. They'd gone cold. He thought­fully tapped the pornographic prints against his thumbnail, remembering Gayla's tearful account of a john who got his highs with a camera. A rage inside him was being stoked, but Rhoda didn't know that.

  She lay back against the pillows in one of the indolent poses captured on film. "Which one do you like best?"

  "I couldn't begin to choose."

  "What's the matter? Jealous?"

  "Pea green with it."

  She frowned. "You don't seem very excited over the pictures."

  "Oh, I am, I am." He bent over her and took both her hands. "Put one hand here," he said, placing it on her breast. "And the other one here, just like in the picture." He laid her hand between her splayed thighs. "And before you know it, you won't even miss me."

  He had his jeans buttoned and was pulling on his shirt before Rhoda realized what was happening. "You can't do this to me again, you bastard."

  Cash slammed out the motel room door. Rhoda lunged off the bed and flung open the door, uncaring that she was stark naked and in full view of anyone on the highway. In a voice that disturbed truckers napping in the neighboring rooms, she screamed, "Screw you, Boudreaux! I'll get even with you for this."

  "Schyler got a contract from Endicott Paper Mill."

  Dale Gilbreath hissed a curse beneath his breath. "How large?"

  "First I have to know if our deal still stands."

  "It does," the banker said. "I get the house. The rest of Belle Terre you can do with as you wish."

  "The bank will get Belle Terre."

  Dale dismissed the clarification. "It'll be as good as mine."

  "How so?"

  "There'll be a foreclosure auction. Private bids."

  "And you'll act as the auctioneer."

  "Precisely," he said with an evil grin.

  "You'll see to it that your bid is the highest." Dale nod­ded. "What if the bids are checked?"

  "I'll fudge them."

  "Even then, you'll have to come up with a tidy sum of cash. Will you have it?"

  "The acquisition of Belle Terre is just one of my, uh, hobbies. I've always got more than one deal going."

  "You're very clever, aren't you, Mr. Gilbreath?"

  "Very."

  Dale gauged the individual across from him. His own motivations for participating in this scheme were clear. He wanted Belle Terre because of the power and respect that went with the address. But what about the other's motiva­tions? Were they as clearly defined as his, or were they murky, linked to the past, and related to the emotions? It didn't matter to him really. He was simply curious. Did one have to have concrete reasons for one's actions? Proba­bly not. His coconspirator held a grudge. He couldn't care less where it had its roots, as long as it resulted in the downfall of the Crandalls and Belle Terre.

  "How large is the Endicott contract?" Dale asked.

  "It's sufficient to pay off the loan and then some."

  "Damn!"

  "But there is a catch. Crandall Logging has to deliver the entire order before Endicott lets go of one red cent."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "I know."

  Dale examined the other's face and decided that the in­formation wasn't speculation, but fact. He expulsed a deep breath. "So the key is to make sure that the last shipment doesn't go through."

  "Right. A shipment will go out every day or so on the train. But, as you said, stopping the last one is the key."

  "How soon will that be?" Dale asked.

  "The order is so large, she'll be working right up to the deadline. And that means everybody working overtime and the weather holding out. She'll barely be able to get the timber there before the note comes due."

  "You'll help me see that she doesn't succeed?"

  "She's dumped on me for the last time. I'll do whatever needs to be done."

  Gilbreath smiled, tasting victory that was only a few weeks away. "I'll speak to Jigger again. He was agreeable when I first mentioned our little project to him."

  "Something else the two of you should know. Gayla Frances is at Belle Terre, lying in Schyler's own bed."

  "Jesus. Flynn would love to know that."

  "Wouldn't he though?"

  "What ha
ppened to the girl?"

  "Why?"

  "Just curious."

  "Are you sure? You look pale. You're not a regular cus­tomer, are you?"

  "What happened to the girl?" Dale repeated with an im­plied threat.

  "Jigger beat her up. She ran away from him. Schyler took her in. That's two strikes against Schyler as far as he's concerned. He'll be more than willing to help us out."

  "And if anything should go wrong and he's caught—"

  "He'll be the one to take the rap."

  "Not quietly, he won't. He'll implicate us."

  "And we'll say he's lying. It'll be our word against his. Who's going to take Jigger's word for anything?"

  Gilbreath smiled at his conspirator. "Keep me posted."

  "Don't doubt that for a minute. Schyler Crandall's comeuppance is long overdue."

  Jimmy Don Davison stared at the envelope for a long time before opening it. It had been unsealed and the con­tents read by prison officials before being delivered to him. The flap on the stiff, cream-colored envelope was em­bossed with the return address: Belle Terre, Heaven, Loui­siana. Now who in hell at Belle Terre would be writing to him in prison? Who at Belle Terre knew or cared that he was there?

  Finally, slumped on his bunk with his back against the wall and his heels at the edge of the thin, lumpy mattress, he took out the single sheet of stationery. Before reading the lines of neat, cursive script, he glanced down at the signature.

  "Schyler Crandall?"

  "D'you say somethin', Jimmy Don?" his cell mate asked from the bunk above his.

  "Nothin' to you, Old Stu."

  "Dear Mr. Davison," the salutation read. In between that and the unexpected signature, he was apologetically reacquainted with the sender, as though anybody from Laurent Parish needed to be reminded who Schyler Crandall was. She inquired after his well-being. Then she got down to the purpose of the letter. It had been sent to inform him that Gayla Francis was living at Belle Terre for an indefinite period of time and that, should he want to contact her, all correspondence should be addressed to her there.

  He read the puzzling letter several times to make certain he understood its meaning. On the surface it amounted to a change of address notification, but what Miss Schyler was telling him in a roundabout way was that he should get in touch with his old girlfriend. Some girlfriend; Gayla was a whore. Apparently she'd sunk so low that even Jigger Flynn wouldn't have her under his roof any longer.

  Jimmy Don coined epithets for Gayla and the rich, white bitch who went meddling into other folks' business. The embossed cream paper became a wadded ball in his fist. He hurled it against the wall opposite him.

  "Hey, man, what's in the letter?"

  "Shut up," Jimmy Don growled to Old Stu.

  Schyler Crandall seemed to think he was interested in Gayla's whereabouts. He was, but only to the extent of knowing where he could find her in a hurry when he got out. He'd have to move fast. She must have no warning. His revenge must be as swift and sure as the sword of God.

  His black eyes snapped with anger. His fists clenched and opened subconsciously. He probed at Gayla's betrayal like a tongue poking at a sore tooth. No matter how much it hurt, he kept returning to it and asking how, how she could have ever resorted to that kind of life.

  They'd talked about graduating college, getting married, having kids. Hell, they'd even named the first three or four. She'd been a virgin the first time they went all the way. He hadn't been far from one. They'd coached each other on how to make love, frankly expressing what felt nice, when to rush, when to tarry.

  The idea of her applying those sexual skills for hire made him sick to his stomach. That she could be loving Jigger Flynn with the same sweetness and consideration that she had once loved him made him livid enough to kill them both and laugh while he was doing it.

  He was so steeped in thoughts about their slow and tor­turous executions that he didn't notice the group of pris­oners that collected outside his cell. It was free time and all the cell doors were opened. Prisoners were at liberty to walk about in unrestricted areas. Jimmy Don didn't see the nefarious group until they came strolling into his cell, crowding together to fit into the small space. Razz propped his elbow on the upper bunk and smiled down at him.

  "What's happenin', boy?"

  "Nobody invited you in, Razz."

  Jimmy Don didn't like the odds. Razz and three of his lieutenants against Old Stu and him. If the prison were a microcosm, Old Stu was the village simpleton. He had been given life for killing a cop, almost assuredly a frame- up. Old Stu didn't seem to mind the injustice. He had no family. The prison was his home. He was useless; he was harmless. His credo was to hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil, and by doing so, survive.

  Razz smiled down at Jimmy Don. "That don't sound very friendly. We came by to give you a going away party, right?" The other three brutes nodded their heads in agree­ment.

  "I'm not going anywhere."

  "You're outta here, boy. Soon. Paroled. Ain't you heard about it yet?"

  Jimmy Don had an appointment with the parole board, but he wasn't going to divulge the date to Razz. "I haven't heard anything official."

  "No?" Razz asked, feigning surprise. "Well now, it would be a damn shame if you caused a fuss right before meeting with the parole board, wouldn't it?" He touched Jimmy Don's cheek affectionately. Jimmy Don jerked his head aside. When he did, he happened to catch one of the other inmates leafing through his Bible.

  "Get your filthy hands off that," he said testily.

  "Hey man, don't go messin' with Jimmy Don's Bible," Razz said to the other prisoner. "His mama must have give it to him, right, Jimmy Don?"

  Jimmy Don moved to the edge of his cot. "I said to leave the Bible alone."

  The other prisoner, ignoring his warning, read the in­scription on die inside cover. "Say what? Now ain't that sweet? You into religion, Jimmy Don?" He ripped out the illuminated page and crumpled it in his fist, just as Jimmy Don had done the letter from Belle Terre.

  "Goddamn you!" Jimmy Don lunged off the cot, hands aimed at the other prisoner's throat.

  Razz caught him by the neck of his T-shirt and held Mm back. Mockingly he scolded Jimmy Don's tormentor. "Leave the boy's Bible alone. Didn't you know he's into all that? It's always revival time at Jimmy Don's church. They get baptized, speak in tongues, handle serpents, all that weird shit."

  Several more gilt-edged pages of the Bible were mali­ciously ripped out and divided between the prisoners. Laughing at their own cleverness, they tore them to shreds before letting them flutter to the floor.

  "You sons of bitches," Jimmy Don snarled.

  "Now is that any way to talk to your friends? Hmm?" Razz cooed. "We come to give you a little going away present."

  "Make that a big going away present." The prisoner stroked the fly of his pants. The joke earned him loud, approving laughter.

  Jimmy Don put up a fierce struggle, but it was a token struggle and he knew it. He was as strong as a young bull, but he couldn't overpower the four of them. It would be useless and even more dangerous to call for a guard be­cause the guard, out of fear of retribution, would side with Razz. If Jimmy Don called attention to himself or caused any trouble in the cell block, he wouldn't make parole. If he didn't make parole, he wouldn't have the chance to do what God had sanctioned him to do to Jigger and Gayla.

  So he gritted his straight, white teeth and endured the gang rape while Old Stu lay in the bunk above him, pick­ing his toenails, and thanking the Lord he was too old and ugly for any of Razz's gang to want him.

  Chapter Forty

  "Damn!"

  Schyler's terse expletive was directed toward the bank statement she had been trying to balance for the last hour. Either she had no head for figures or her calculator was broken or several thousand dollars in the Crandall Logging account was indeed missing.

  She needed Ken's help with this. He was the accountant. He was being paid to track down misplaced money. She rea
ched for the telephone on her desk but before she touched it, it rang.

  "Hello?"

  "Schyler? Jeff Collins."

  She and the doctor had been on a first-name basis since Cotton's surgery. "There's nothing wrong I hope."

  "Why do people always think the worst when a doctor calls?"

  She laughed. "Sorry. Are you the bearer of good news?"

  "I hope you'll think so. Your father can leave tomor­row."

  "That's wonderful," she exclaimed.

  "You might want to check with the nurses before you say that," the doctor remarked around a chuckle. "Within a week you might want to send him back. Not that we'd take him back. He's gotten to be a real pain in the ass."

  "Feisty old codger, isn't he?"

  "The feistiest."

  "I can't wait to have him home."

  "If you want to come by this afternoon, I'll have all the release forms ready for you to sign. That way you won't bottleneck with the other dismissed patients in the morn­ing."

  "Thanks for the consideration, Jeff. I'll be right over."

  Before she could hang up, he said, "We haven't told him yet. I thought you might want to break the good news yourself."

  "Thanks, I appreciate that. See you shortly."

  Grimacing with distaste, she folded all the canceled checks back into the folder, along with the bank's comput­erized printout of her account. The damn thing would have to remain unreconciled for the time being.

  In fact, everything could be put on hold. Cotton Crandall was coming home.

  "Seen Ms. Crandall?" Cash asked a logger who was weighing in the load on his rig. The scale at the landing was so delicate, the amount of board feet the load con­tained could be measured precisely.

  "She left 'bout five minutes ago," he answered around a chaw of tobacco. "What are you doing here?"

  "I brought Kermit back," Cash replied absently. It was unusual for Schyler to leave this early in the afternoon. "Did Ms. Crandall happen to say where she was going?"

  "The hospital."

  Cash, who'd been wiping his perspiring face with his bandanna, froze. The logger had his back turned and was shouting directions to the driver of another rig. Cash caught his shoulder and turned him around. "The hospi­tal?"